


holding on steady

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Category: The Mysterious Benedict Society - Trenton Lee Stewart
Genre: Adoption, And Kate and Sticky are like, Campfires, Childhood, Childhood Trauma, Exhaustion, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hiking, I have a lot of feelings about Reynie Muldoon, Kiddo, Like, Mother-Son Relationship, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Please Understand the We Love You Very Much, Reynie is feeling some sad thoughts and some doubts, Sleep Deprivation, Stargazing, Trauma, and how lonely he was at the start of the books, and how much love and acceptance he finds, and how much pressure he was under as the 'leader', and it is good, essentially, i write these characters dealing with their trauma, it is who i am now, please have a nap, this is apparently a thing now, you're thirteen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: It was Number Two who suggested it, brisk and kind and words clicking between her teeth. "A camping trip," she said, "it'll be good for you." Then, in typical Number Two fashion, she nibbled on a carrot.Mr. Curtain is caught: the whole ordeal is supposed to be over. Why, then, does Reynie feel so unsteady?
Relationships: Constance Contraire & Reynie Muldoon, Reynie Muldoon & Kate Wetherall, Reynie Muldoon & Miss Perumal, Reynie Muldoon & Sticky Washington
Comments: 12
Kudos: 35





	holding on steady

**Author's Note:**

> as always, this fic is for the wonderful pumkinthistle over on tumblr. PLEASE go check out her blog and weep over how beautiful her Mysterious Benedict Society art is.  
> https://pumpkinthistle.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also, special shout out to carrotline and seven_of_crows, who left such touching comments on my previous MBS fic and had me WEEPING
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys!

Reynie breathes the crisp air and tries to relax into it, to fill himself with something bright and clean and simple. 

_Tries,_ being the key word.

There are birds chirping, distant and cheerful. It takes him half a moment to name them, quail and chickadee. He wonders, if he asked Sticky, if the other boy would be able to point out even more.

But he doesn't.

Ahead, Kate is letting off some extra steam, jogging ahead at a pace most would call a sprint and then cheerfully retracing her steps, bouncing up to Moocho like a hyperactive puppy, golden and brilliant and blinding in her joy. The man himself is calling her the scout of their small group, the lookout for the perfect camping place. 

Candace, for her part, rolls her eyes, trudging unhappily uphill in her new bright red hiking boots. The fact that they were new and red and this would be her first chance to wear them has practically everything to do with why she agreed to go on this journey in the first place.

Despite this, she's spent most of her time hanging like a limpet onto Rhonda's back, tapping tiny fingers on her shoulder and making conversation. The red is practically as shiny and clean as when they started.

The next time Kate comes scrambling down the mountain, she picks up the little girl and races away still holding her, Constance screeching all the while and making no real move to get away.

Sticky, a step behind Reynie, lets out an undignified snort. 

He tries to breathe that in, too. This trip is supposed to be relaxing. Nature and trees and birdsong, time outside and the world at their feet.

Reynie doesn't feel relaxed. Reynie feels tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's supposed to be over and he's still getting caught up in the lingering panic, that heavy dreaded expectation that rested on their shoulders for weeks and weeks and months.

But Mr. Curtain is in prison now. The Ten Men are almost entirely captured alongside him. Reynie is safe. His friends are safe. His family is safe.

It doesn't stop him from waking up in the middle of the night, accosted up by jumbled visions of silver hands and blinding pain, cold walls and quiet whispers and a senseless sort of fear. 

On those nights, Reynie wakes up. He breathes. Sometimes he takes a little penlight and reads until the sky begins to go grey with the light of the coming dawn. Sometimes he heads downstairs and makes himself tea, milk and sugar and shaking ceramic. He did not know his hands could be this unsteady.

Some nights, the light under Mr. Benedict's door is on, and Reynie creeps past and feels like a ghost. 

He doesn't knock.

Amma’s worried. He knows she is. She's been watching him with those dark, gentle eyes, and he's heard her whispering with the other parents, concern colouring her tongue. They're all worried about them, these four kids who saved the world. The adults have been exchanging glances over their heads, and Reynie grinds his teeth together and hates that his own body is a puzzle he can't solve.

(He wonders if she regrets taking him, now. Miss Perumal’s always expressed pride on his resilience back before all this, in the orphanage. Now he just feels tired. Maybe she wanted a different boy than what she’s got, someone who walked out of danger as steady as he was going in, not less.)

It was Number Two who suggested it, brisk and kind and words clicking between her teeth. "A camping trip," she said, "it'll be good for you." Then, in typical Number Two fashion, she nibbled on a carrot.

And they had all shrugged and agreed, because in the aftermath of everything it seemed the thing to do. And if he was going to be honest with himself, Reynie was done with making decisions. He was done getting his friends hurt.

So now they are here, up in the mountains, hiking higher and higher. Number Two knitted them all sweaters in the week before they had made their trip- all in unflattering tones, of course. It had been a whole affair, handing them out, tutting about how much they have grown, how proud of them she is. Rhonda, behind her sister, had been grinning and silently laughing at their expense, fond teasing in her eyes.

When they get to the top, they’ll take a picture with the garments pulled on, have it printed so they can show it off to the family who opted to stay home. For now, the sweaters stay tied around their waists, bouncing with every clambering step, and- in Kate’s case- flying after her like a cape as she runs. 

A hand on his elbow, tugging. Reynie blinks, jerks roughly away before settling again. Sticky is looking at him with worried brown eyes, warm and steady and all the things he’s not sure how to hold anymore. Without really meaning to, he feels his shoulders hunch up to his chin.

It’s odd. A year ago, he thinks their positions would have been quite the reverse, the nerves in his friend’s veins acting up and him soothing it down. Now, Reynie is oddly fragile, his skin too small for his bones, and it leaves him floundering.

“Are you alright?”

He runs a hand through his hair. Resists the urge to pace.

“I’m fine, Sticky. What is it you were saying again, about the sialia currucoides...?

His friend gives him a look, telling him _exactly_ how little his diversionary tactics flew under the radar. Nonetheless, after another worried pause, he gets back into describing the migration habits of mountain bluebirds, and Reynie can breathe again.

They climb. There is a brook, trickling down the path, getting their hiking boots sloshed with mud. Reynie peers into little gathered pools with Constance at his side, watching small tadpoles swim in lazy circles. When they get to a particularly flat stretch, he pulls the girl up to sit on his shoulders, her tiny hands wrapped around his forehead, her feet kicking against his chest. The sun shines brightly above, most of the warmth being sucked up by the high altitude, but as they walk Kate laughs at something Sticky says, head thrown back and the light painting her face with a warm glow, and it’s something.

Moocho also laughs, glancing back at the pair of them with a broad smile before patting Sticky on the shoulder. This makes the boy grin as well, small and shy, looking at his feet before trudging on ahead, step after step.

Catching up to him, Rhonda starts talking about Reynie’s most recent research project, and they get caught up analyzing the poetry Sappho of Lesbos, Constance only occasionally adding her own commentary.

Reynie breathes it in, breathes it in, and tries to hold it. 

The sun is almost setting when Kate finally claims she’s found the perfect camping spot. They all happily set down their backpacks filled with sleeping bags and snacks and necessities, relieved to be free of the weight. By the time Reynie has finished drinking from his water bottle, Kate has a fire started.

Which is just typical. He doesn’t even really blink at her speed anymore. Just like how he doesn’t blink when Sticky pulls out obscure impossible knowledge off the top of his head, or when Constance gleams thoughts from his mind and blurts them aloud. Admiring, yes, but no longer surprising.

Still, he _is_ surprised by how pleasant it is, up here in the falling dusk and the flames’ warmth. They toast hotdogs for supper and make a game of roasting unconventional ingredients, be it tomatoes, leftover sandwiches, or sticky toffee once they’ve eaten their fill. Moocho- somehow, through no conventional means that Reynie can understand- brings out an entire untouched pie. They eat it cold with their fingers, and then all regret it immediately upon having to wash away the stickiness in the icy mountain stream. 

They take the picture in the lingering light of the day, Kate leaping into the air for her pose and Sticky throwing up an awkward peace sign, Constance pulling a face from where she’s settled on a beaming Rhonda’s hip. Moocho has to sprint every time he sets up the timed camera, coming to crouch behind Reynie to keep his head in the frame.

Some hours later, after stargazing and chatter and putting the fire out, they’re all curled up in sleeping bags, catching sleep. Something inside of him, surrounded by good company and the continued lack of danger, has softened, found a little more peace. Still, though, he wouldn’t call himself relaxed, or even particularly happy, which feels wrong. A younger version of himself would have given most anything to be where he is now, surrounded by friends and the warmth of knowing people are waiting for him back home.

It makes him feel ungrateful, turning this fragile peace cold in his gut. Reynie curls into himself and closes his eyes, breathes in and breathes out, tries and fails to breathe steady.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, stuck in a loop of fitful rest and listening to his companions breathing. When he does manage to drop off, it’s to dreams of boarded up windows, silver flashes, and his hands crumpling into string, unraveling. 

Reynie feels like he’s unravelling, unspooling. A knitted jumper suddenly useless, tangled thread.

Eventually, wiggling out of his sleeping bag and climbing to his feet becomes preferable to the restless slumber and long waits with too much time to think. The cold is bitter, this late at night, or perhaps this early in the morning. It sends goosebumps up his arms, stings at his cheeks.

Constance has maneuvered over to lie on top of Moocho’s chest, spread eagled and snoring. Rhonda is curled into a tight ball in her bag, only her long braids poking out on top. It takes a moment to spot Kate and Sticky, pressed back to back, having rolled closer together during the night.

Reynie’s eyes itch, and he rubs at them, the exhaustion a physical weight on his shoulders. When he looks up, there is an insurmountable swath of stars, and a moon so close he feels like he could touch it. He never knew he could feel this small.

At the very least, it provides ample light to jam his feet into his boots and pick his way through the darkness, find a large rock some meters away from the campsite perfect for sitting. He plops himself down and curls into himself, rubbing at his arms, glaring at his shoes, which he realizes he’s put on the wrong feet.

In his head, Reynie writes a letter to Miss Perumal and tries to explain everything that’s wrong. The restlessness curling up under his spine, the unsteadiness to his hands, the way his entire self is unravelling: all of it presses at the crevices in his mind, leaves fractures of hesitation. Water, he knows, can break the hardest of rock, by slipping into the tiniest of cracks and expanding over and over and over…

Maybe this is what it feels like to go insane. Reynie held himself together through the Whisperer and the Ten Men and silver lighting seizing up his limbs, guided his team and came up with quick-fire plans with even less than a hope and a prayer. Riddles and puzzles and impossible situations, adrenaline thrumming and choking fear, and he had made it, had held steady.

And now the danger is gone, he’s tired and he can’t sleep, and it feels like he’s shaking all the time, even when he’s still.

In his head, the letter to Amma crumples into a ball of useless paper and he throws it into the bin. There are no words to express this sense of loss, this lack of control.

He wonders if his friends are disappointed, too. They looked to him for the answers he held in the palms of his hands, once, and now he can’t hold anything.

Reynie breathes, breathes-

Freezes, when he hears someone making their way through the dark.

Someones.

Kate's eyes are like mirrors, reflecting the brilliant moon above them. Sticky is squinting, glasses off, but they focus easily enough once Reynie enters his line of sight. Both of them look worried. Both of them look too kind, too knowing, and it aches.

To his surprise, they sit down besides him without any fuss, without any cajoling to come back to bed. Sticky perches on the rock, the press of his knee warm against Reynie’s own, and Kate plops down on the ground, uncaring about the dirt.

Reynie curls his fingers together and grips at his shirt. When a mouthful of fabric gets shoved in his face, he frowns and immediately recognizes the material as Number Two’s sweater. He frowns down at Kate and she shrugs, unrepentant. Stick lets out a snort that could very well be an aborted snicker.

“Kate, I’m really not that col-”

“Reynie, put on the sweater.”

There is no room for argument. Reynie puts on the sweater. 

It’s warm. He didn’t realize how cold he felt until the fabric hid away his skin from the cool night air. Quietly, reflexively, he tucks his fingers into the sleeves to make little pockets of heat. The girl at his feet gives him a face that has _I told you so_ painted all over it, but in typical Kate fashion it dissolves into a smile almost immediately after.

Sticky knocks their shoulders together. His eyes give off the same feeling of warmth as the sweater he’s currently wearing. “Are you alright?” he asks again, quietly, quiet, and the words are no more profound than the first time he asked but the press of them is more gentle.

Reynie swallows, dry. 

“I don’t know.”

And he doesn’t, he _doesn’t,_ and the problem of the matter is he can’t even grasp how to start. Before, Reynie had plans: plans and quiet hopes and obstacles to overcome. Now he has everything he’s ever wanted and he is getting his wires crossed, feeling emotions that do not belong in this space and time. He wishes Constance was here, to pluck out all the tangled lines in his mind and make them clear.

At the same time he doesn’t want to put that sort of pressure on a girl who is only just now starting to eat her broccoli without throwing a fit first. 

Reynie breathes. His friends look at him, holding steady.

(Holding steady, holding steady- Reynie feels so unsteady, swaying on even ground.)

Kate squeezes his ankle. Sticky blinks at him, slow and soft. Waiting, patient. He is struck, suddenly, by how young they all are. About how much life they have stretched out ahead of them, no map to show them the way.

“Do you ever,” the words fumble on his tongue, thick and cracking against his teeth, “do you ever feel like- like maybe you’re wearing clothes and they don’t fit. A costume. And one day, one day something’s going to come along and take it away, and people are going to, they’re going to look at you. Differently. Than before. Because they realize the clothes don’t fit, and maybe they never did fit, and maybe they never _will_ fit.”

He doesn’t look at their faces, burying his face in his hands. All his eloquence has left him. There’s something in his throat, and it feels erratic, precarious, a step away from falling over the edge.

It feels like tears.

“I’m not making any sense. I’m sorry.” Reynie’s voice cracks on the last word, too tumultuous and present in their responding silence.

Something tugs at his wrists, pulling them away from his face, and he lets it happen. Kate crouches in front of him, something so fierce and strong in her eyes, something giant. 

“Listen here, Reynard Muldoon,” she says to him, and it is a proclamation, “one day you’re going to figure out how much you mean to us, how much we care about you and love you, and you’re going to look back at this moment and smack yourself in the head. One day, you’re gonna realize that it doesn’t matter how lost you are, we’re always going to find you.”

Her lips quirk into a crooked little grin. “You’re not getting rid of us that easy.”

Reynie is looking at her, keeps looking at her, and his mouth opens and no words come out.

Sticky’s clammy hand finds his own, gives it a squeeze. Reynie glances at him, out of the corner of his eye, and his friend’s face is earnest and shining with a sort of certainty that could not be denied.

“You don’t have to prove yourself. Not to us. Not ever. We’ve got your back.”

And Reynie-

He is exhausted. He has been catching terrors in the pools of his minds as of late, rather than the rest he so desperately needs. He is exhausted and he is drowning, just a little, in his own doubt. He does not know how to fit into a world where the spaces he once filled have been proven obsolete. He does not know how to deal with all the emotions slipping out of his crevices of self, now that it is safe to do so.

He breathes. He never knew his hands could be this unsteady.

But his friends are by his side, holding him up, pressing in close, here and here and here. Reynie thinks, maybe, he can do this, can make it, because they have promised not to let him do it alone. The future holds nothing but mystery, but solving mysteries is what they do.

They sit there until the grey light of the pre-dawn comes rolling in, until the sun starts to poke its weary head through the leaves and bursts into the open sky. A breath-taking array of colours, nature’s skilled hand painting across the horizon. 

They clamber back to the campground, huddle into their sleeping bags in one big pile, quietly talking while they wait for the others to get up. Reynie is wedged between his two friends, warm and snug, when he realizes he is relaxed. That, somewhere between the night and the sunrise, something content has sunk into his bones and soothed the tension, soothed the ache.

Constance’s bleary head pops up from Moocho’s chest, spots them in moments. She blinks, for one second, then two, not quite comprehending. On his left, Kate snorts, and on his right Sticky’s eyes crinkle happily. 

It drives the small girl to action, and she shimmies across the distance still in her sleeping bag, only to flop on top of him. He has a sneaking suspicion that she’s most definitely wedging her sharp elbows into his stomach on purpose, just to hear him go “ _Oompf.”_

He wheezes. “Good morning, Constance.”

Constance grumbles, Kate lets out a full blown, sleep deprived laugh, and then they’re all giggling.

It wakes up Rhonda and Moocho, the two adults pulling themselves up with a groan and then with a smile, seeing the children all dogpiled together. 

They eat breakfast, leftovers from last night and dry cereal. They chat by the fire, restarted by Moocho with a flare that comes only from living in the circus, and he and Sticky make a game of seeing who can detect and classify the most birdsong, Rhonda turning out to be an unexpected winner by the time they start getting ready to head back down again.

Reynie drops off on the long car ride home, head pressed against the window, the sound of the radio filtering through in the background. If he dreams, he doesn’t remember it. 

And it is not perfect. There is no simple healing, not from this. There will be days of struggle, days that unravel and tangle and leave him breathless and shaking with it. There will be days that ache and feel hollow. 

But Reynie has people to hold him, now, to help him back to his feet. The hard days may come, but so will better days, brighter ones. There is no simple healing, but that does not mean healing is not there, filling into the cracks, growing forth from the stone.

They get back to Mr. Benedict’s house, climbing out of the car jelly legged and groaning, unpacking the loaded van and eating a loud and hearty supper, crowded around in the too-small dining room. Number Two delights over the sweater picture, Milligan asks for leftover pie, and Mr. Benedict takes great delight in hearing Constance’s rhymed account of the entire journey.

After everything and anything, Reynie finds Miss. Perumal. She is sipping tea at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, and the sight of it holds something so incredibly warm and gentle inside his chest.

It feels like coming a full circle, just a little bit. It feels like coming home.

“Ama,” he says, just that, and she glances up at him with a smile that turns into something softer at the sight of his face. He is already moving forwards as she begins to stand up, and she pulls him into a hug without a second thought. 

He rests his chin on her shoulder, turns his face to hide it in her neck. She tucks him close, closer, and rests her cheek on his hair. The tears fall hichingly, shakily, and she rocks him, just a bit, back and forth, back and forth. He has no words to explain to her and she holds him anyway.

“I have you,” she whispers, as if it is some sort of sacred secret, a promise that could encapsulate a thousand sunrises, a thousand sunsets, every last star in the night sky and all of nature’s wonders. “I have you.”

Reynie breathes and relaxes in her arms. He did not know he could feel this steady.


End file.
